


i hope i never lose the bruises that you left behind

by bellawritess



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Asexual Luke Hemmings, First Kiss, Friendship, M/M, also, and domestic fluffy malum, asexual ashton irwin, english major ashton, excessive use of the word fuck. maybe., featuring domestic fluffy jalex, film major luke, forgot about that lol, fratboy!calum, im so sorry luke, sorry this talks so much about screenplay i wrote myself into a corner, you know me......college au slut, your soulmate's injuries appear on you au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25234501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: Ashton doesn'thatehis soulmate. He'd just love it if they were slightly less accident-prone.
Relationships: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth, Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford & Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Comments: 27
Kudos: 116





	i hope i never lose the bruises that you left behind

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiiii i finally finished a WIP are you proud thank you
> 
> this, like literally every single thing i try to write, spiraled vastly out of hand. im pretty sure this was supposed to be a cute, SHORT one-shot, and now here we are, 11k later.................................
> 
> title from bruises by lewis capaldi for obvious reasons!!! love this trope but it's always done in a super angsty way and i wanted to try my hand at just making it like. world's klutziest soulmate. so here's this
> 
> i hope everyone is doing well you can come say heyyyy on tumblr ill leave my @ in the end notes okay that is all enjoy
> 
> tw for alcohol/drinking !!!

"Motherfucker," Ashton bites out, and Michael doesn't even flinch.

"Another?"

"I swear to God," Ashton says, pressing his thumb into the bruise blossoming on his left wrist. "I don't know how they manage it."

"Maybe they're blind," Michael offers.

"Even a blind person couldn't be this much of a klutz," Ashton says darkly.

Michael looks over at Ashton, amused. "Don't hate the soulmate."

Ashton doesn't _hate_ his soulmate. He'd just love it if they were slightly less accident-prone. The number of times he's been pulled aside by various friends and family to ask if he's doing okay, only to wearily explain that it's just his soulmate's apparent inability to walk through life unblemished, is getting embarrassing.

"How do you even bruise your wrist?" Ashton wonders aloud. "Like, how?"

"Maybe they wore a bracelet too tight," Michael says, smirking. 

Ashton rolls his eyes at Michael. Michael's lucky; Calum had never been clumsy before they met, and now Michael doesn't have to deal with his soulmate's injuries. You only feel a prick of pain compared to your soulmate's real injury, but Ashton bitterly wishes Michael could still get a shock every once in a while from it.

"Don't hate the soulmate," Ashton parrots. He falls back on the couch. "Let me play."

"You suck at this game," Michael says. Ashton makes grabby hands for Michael's controller, and Michael hugs it closer to his chest. "No. You'll mess up my progress."

"So save it."

Michael huffs theatrically. He saves his progress and then passes the controller off to Ashton. 

"Jesus, that's a nasty one," he says, peering at Ashton's brand-new bruise. "Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore." Michael knows it doesn't hurt anymore; he just likes to remind Ashton, at every available opportunity, that he doesn't experience this issue anymore.

"Shame," Michael muses. Ashton punches his shoulder.

"See if that shows up on Calum," he threatens. Michael just laughs, rubbing his shoulder.

"Are you playing?" he says, gesturing at the game on the TV. Ashton hits play and starts the game from where Michael had left off. Michael watches, chiming in every couple minutes with helpful commentary said in the most unhelpful tone of voice.

"Your six," Michael says as Ashton's heading into a pixelated shack. "Your six, Ashton, your fucking six!"

"I don't know which side that is!" Ashton whirls his guy around in the ambiguous direction of his six and starts shooting. A pinching flare of pain shoots up his leg suddenly, and Ashton drops the controller to reach for his foot, which stops hurting as soon as he gets a hand on it. 

The screen taunts him with a message declaring he's died. Michael throws his arms up. "What the fuck, Ashton!"

"Not my fault," Ashton grumbles. He returns Michael's controller to him. "Fucking hell."

Michael snickers.

* * *

Second semester classes start the following day. Ashton leaves his Shakespeare Analysis class feeling invigorated. Jack makes fun of Ashton for being an avid Shakespeare fan, but Ashton thinks if Jack took the time to understand it, he'd actually really appreciate some of the Bard's comedies. Jack and Shakespeare have one thing in common, and that is a penchant for dick jokes.

 _Much Ado About Nothing_ and a new syllabus tucked safely under his arm, Ashton heads to the dining hall. He's just pulling out his phone to check the time and possibly his texts when he hears, "Ashton, hey."

"Oh, I was about to text you," Ashton says to Alex, putting his phone away. "Hey."

"I'm fucking starving," Alex says. "The Starbucks line is already insane."

"Well, it's rush hour."

"Freshmen shouldn't be allowed in the Starbucks," Alex says. It's kind of mean, but Ashton privately agrees. He tries not to be jaded, since he remembers being a freshman, but it's hard when they're so... _green_.

"Starbucks doesn't have lunch anyway," Ashton points out, steering them over to a table. 

"Yeah, but it's the principle."

"When's your class?" 

"Two," Alex says. "Yours?"

"Same." A screenwriting class that Ashton is unspeakably excited for. He's not planning on being a screenwriter, but he's not _not_ planning on it, and he's always found it a fascinating concept, the ability to turn words into pictures.

"Shit, then we better eat," Alex says. "I'm gonna get a sandwich. Back in a few."

"I'm not watching the table," Ashton argues. "I'm hungry too."

"Dibs on getting food first," Alex says.

Ashton flips him off. Alex just grins, taking it in stride. He sets off toward the sandwich station while Ashton stays in his seat, kicking absently against the leg of the table. He fucks around on his phone for a few minutes, and then a searing pain burns against the back of his hand. Hissing, he, bringing his skin to his mouth to ease the heat, but just as quickly as it came, it vanishes. Ashton pulls his hand in front of his face to stare at the patchy red burn appearing before his eyes.

"Hey," Alex says, sitting down. Ashton looks up. "What's up?"

Ashton shows him the burn. "My fucking soulmate can't go twelve hours without hurting himself."

Alex snorts. "That's hilarious. I saw a guy at the coffee station spill his drink on his hand like that."

Ashton gapes at him. "What? Seriously?"

"Yeah." Alex's eyes widen. _There it is_ , Ashton thinks impatiently. "Oh, fuck. It was some blond kid, I think? Sorry, I totally didn't think—"

"Is he still there?" Ashton presses. Alex looks towards the coffee station, and Ashton follows his gaze, but it's empty. Shit. Ashton casts his eyes around the dining hall. His heart is pounding. It might not be his soulmate, but it also _might_ be, and this is the closest Ashton has ever been. His palms feel slick just thinking about it.

"He must have left," Alex says. "Sorry, man. It didn't even occur to me—"

"It's fine," Ashton sighs. "Back to square one."

"Maybe you could break your leg and then see who starts limping," Alex suggests. 

Ashton glares at him and steals the pickle off his plate. He crunches on it grumpily and pushes out his chair. "I'm getting lunch."

"Don't spill your coffee!"

Ashton gives him the middle finger.

* * *

Ashton takes a seat at the front of his screenwriting class. He has some lingering frustration from missing out the chance to meet his potential soulmate, but on the bright side (because Ashton's nothing if not relentlessly positive), at least now he knows his soulmate is at this school. At least, he _thinks_. There's always the chance that the burn and the blond coffee kid had been a complete coincidence.

Ashton doesn't really believe in coincidences, is the thing.

Also, he muses as the class starts, if it's not a coincidence, then he knows his soulmate is a guy. He doesn't want to get excited, just in case it _is_ a fluke, but secretly he'd kind of hoped his soulmate would be a guy. As the professor takes attendance, Ashton settles into his seat, feeling a bit better and very eager to learn how to screenwrite.

"Emma Halworth," the professor reads off her list. A quiet _here_ arises from somewhere behind Ashton. "Lucas Hemmings." Another _here_. The professor glances up. "Do you go by Lucas or Luke?"

"Um, just Luke," the alleged Luke says.

"Luke," the professor repeats, writing it into her margins. "Great. Ashton Irwin?"

"Hi," Ashton says, smiling brightly. The professor smiles back.

"Hi," she says. Ashton instantly likes her. "Hannah Johnson?"

Another _here_ . Ashton writes _Screenwriting Day 1_ into the top of his notebook page, and waits for the real class to start.

* * *

"How was the day?" Alex greets him from the kitchen.

“Pretty good for a first day,” Ashton says. He sniffs the air. "What are you cooking? Smells fucking amazing."

"Hey," Jack says, appearing behind Alex and hooking his chin over Alex's shoulder. His arms snake around Alex's waist. "Alex isn't the only cook in the house."

"You're right," Ashton says. "There's also me."

Jack pulls an offended face. "I'll jerk off in your dinner."

"That's gross," Ashton says mildly. "Where's Michael?"

"Calum's."

Of course he is. "Is he eating with us?"

"Who, Calum?"

Ashton shrugs. "Either. Both."

"Well, I don't know. You could call and ask him."

"God, no." Ashton grimaces. "I'm scarred for life from the last time I rang Michael while he was with Calum."

Jack cackles. "Aww, is Ashton sad because he's our token single friend?"

"Actually, we're pretty sure Ash's soulmate goes here," Alex says. His hand has come up to gentle scratch at the side of Jack's head; Jack angles himself into the touch. Sometimes, Jack and Alex are sickeningly cute. Other times, they're just sickening.

"Oh yeah? Did you meet them or something?"

"Alex saw him spill his coffee on his hand in the dining hall, and I got a burn at the same time," Ashton explains. He shows off the burn mark for Jack; it's receding, faster for him than it probably is for his soulmate. 

"Damn," Jack says. "Why didn't you talk to him?"

"He left before we made the connection," Alex says. "But if he goes here, you're bound to run into him again soon, Ash."

"If he goes here, I should've run into him earlier," Ashton points out. He doesn't mean to sound sullen, but it's usually a byproduct of discussing his (absence of a) soulmate.

"Maybe he's a fresher," Jack says. Alex shudders.

"Oh, god. I hope you understand why we'd have to cut ties with you for that."

Ashton rolls his eyes. He hopes his soulmate isn't a freshman, although he supposes if it's the person he's destined to be with he can't be that bad, even if he's a little naive or excitable or has any of the other really annoying freshman traits.

"Or maybe he's just a hermit," he says. "Or maybe he's a transfer. Or maybe we've just never been in the same place before."

"You just don't want a freshie soulmate," Jack says, smirking. 

"My soulmate could be in secondary school and still be more mature than you are."

"Alex loves me just the way I am."

"Yup," Alex says, popping the P. "Especially love how easily you put out."

"It is my most attractive trait."

"I think I'm gonna go for a walk," Ashton announces, even though he's just gotten home. "I'll text Michael about dinner."

"Mhm," Alex says, distracted by Jack kissing gingerly along his jaw. Ashton takes his cue and shuts the door behind him as he goes.

It's a bit chilly, but altogether nice. This part of the country doesn't get too cold too long, which is one of Ashton's favorite things about it. He'd come here with the hopes that the climate might be, if not identical, then at least comparable to Sydney's, and he hasn't been disappointed yet. Three winters, and Ashton has yet to lodge a single complaint.

He shoots a text to Michael asking if he and/or Calum will eat dinner with them. Dinner won't be for awhile anyway, if Jack and Alex are about to fuck, which they definitely are. Ashton meanders until he gets back to campus. It's only the first day, so going to the library won't do him much academic good, but Ashton likes to browse the shelves. Veering left past the dining hall, he tugs open the doors of the library to admit himself.

A blast of warm air rushes to greet him as he crosses the threshold. The library has become a great source of comfort for Ashton over the past years. Besides being a good resource, especially for his English major, it's also furnished to be incredibly comforting. The bookshelves on the upper floors stand strong and silent, study rooms nestled at the edges of each floor, and downstairs, a work lounge boasts brightly colored bean bag chairs and booths with mobile desks. The library is also closer to Ashton's classes than his house off-campus, which makes it an easy place to set up camp for breaks between classes.

He waves to the student at the desk as he makes for the stairs. The door for the stairwell has only just shut behind him, Ashton on the first step, when his ankle gives out. He cries out, falling to the ground as pain flares up his leg. His immediate thought is _my fucking soulmate_ , and he waits, eyes watering, for the brief instance of anguish to fade. But the longer he sits there, back to the wall, jaw set, it hits him that for once, this injury is _his._

Christ. Of _course_ he'd twist his own fucking ankle. What a dumb injury. What a dumb, painful injury that means he's going to have to ring someone to come pick him up. Ashton's pretty sure he could limp home, but on a twisted ankle he'd really prefer not to.

Unfortunately, Michael has the car right now, and Michael is at Calum's, and hasn't replied to Ashton's text yet. Which can really only mean one thing, and Ashton would rather walk on a twisted ankle than interrupt that one thing.

Sighing, he texts Michael again.

 **ashton:** hey mate hate to interrupt you but I fucked up my ankle and need a ride home

 **ashton:** at the library

He'll wait for a few minutes before calling. Hopefully nobody comes into the stairwell in the next few minutes. Most people take the elevator, Ashton is pretty sure. Now he can see why.

He plays Candy Crush for five minutes. Then, _mercifully_ :

 **michael:** oh shit sorry lol

 **michael:** omw. Bringing cal

Ashton sighs and tips his head back against the wall.

* * *

The whole way home, Michael makes fun of him. Ashton very maturely ignores him. He'll put a plastic spider in Michael's bed and they'll be even.

As they re-enter the house, Michael sings, "Ashton fucked his soulmate over!"

" _Ashton fucked his soulmate_ _?_ " Jack shouts from the kitchen. Done banging Alex, then. Well. Ashton _hopes._

"I did _neither_ of those things," Ashton huffs. "I just twisted my fucking ankle."

"And now Ashton's soulmate is out there, somewhere, wondering why their soulmate would do them so dirty," Calum says solemnly. "The most tragic of love stories."

"Shut up," Ashton says. "I thought you were on my side." As if Calum would pick Ashton's side against Michael, ever.

"I'm on Calum's side," Calum says. "Hungry."

"Dinner's almost done!" Jack announces, finally filling the kitchen doorway and brandishing a wooden spoon. Flecks of water drip onto the floor.

"Where's Alex?" Calum asks, flopping back onto the couch. Michael trails after, cuddling into Calum's side with one leg thrown over Calum's. Times like these, it's impossible for Ashton not to feel like a third (or fifth) wheel. He loves his friends, but it's kind of lonely being the only one of them without a soulmate.

 _Closer today than I was yesterday, though,_ he reminds himself. _He's at this school. It's just a matter of meeting him._

"Shower," Jack says, with a filthy smirk. "Make sure to remind him how much he loves me when he gets out."

"Nobody wants to get in the middle of that," Michael says, wrinkling his nose. "Cal, Fifa?"

Calum turns puppy dog eyes onto Ash. "Put the game in?"

"I'm not your servant," Ashton says.

"I know." Calum smiles sunnily. "Do it anyway?"

Ashton sighs, but he stoops over to put the game in anyway. 

"Love you, Ash," Michael chants as Ashton straightens.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be in my room. Call me when dinner's ready." Ashton grabs his bag and limps up the stairs. It occurs to him that in the excitement he'd forgotten to tell Calum and Michael about his near-miss with his maybe-soulmate at lunch. He'll tell them over dinner. In the meantime, he cracks open _Much Ado_ and flops back onto his bed to start reading it. If he were more responsible he'd put ice on his ankle, but whatever. It'll heal on its own.

He nestles deep into his pillow and reads the first page, easily absorbed in the world of Leonato, Hero, and Beatrice. 

* * *

Screenwriting only meets Monday and Friday, so it stands to reason that the weekly workload would be bulky enough. Ashton doesn't mind reading screenplays or watching movies on his own. There's just one assignment that's slowly driving him insane, and that is the final screenplay. All he needs to turn in before Friday's class is an _idea_ , and he's coming up entirely blank. 

Michael knocks on the open door on Thursday evening and comes in before Ashton can tell him to leave. "It smells in here," he says in lieu of greeting.

"Didn't until you came in," Ashton replies, without turning away from his laptop.

"Rude," Michael says. "What's up? I feel like you came home and holed up."

"So like you?"

"Yeah, but you're not the type," Michael observes, annoyingly astute. "Is this still the screenplay thing?"

Ashton omits a pitiful groan. "I can't think of anything. Not a single thing. Every idea I've ever had is awful."

"That's not true," Michael says. "Only most of them. You know what they say about stopped clocks."

"Not helpful," Ashton grumbles.

Michael chuckles. He rubs his hand across Ashton's shoulders. "Take a break. Come hang out. We're gonna play Taboo."

"What are we, sixty?"

"Nope, just Alex."

Ashton hums. He feels tense and wound up, and it's true that sitting in front of a blank document isn't helping him to come up with any good ideas. He's also feeling kind of down, an aching brand of missing his soulmate that comes from knowing he's so close yet so far and no nearer to figuring out who it is. 

"This is due tomorrow," Ashton argues weakly.

"Do it after we play, you'll come back with a different perspective. Come on, Ash, you're obviously not gonna get anything done like this."

Michael knows Ashton too well. It's annoying on the worst of days, but in times like this it's just reassuring. Ashton heaves a sigh.

"I guess you're right," he says, getting to his feet with a final glance at his screen before turning to face Michael.

"And I can tell you're thinking about your soulmate," Michael adds, although _how_ , Ashton has no clue. "So stop that, too. I'm sure he'll, I don't know, fall down some stairs soon and you'll get to connect with him again."

"Fuck off," Ashton says, biting down on a laugh. It's not funny. His soulmate constantly hurting himself _shouldn't_ be funny.

But it kinda is. A little.

Michael just reaches for his wrist and pulls him out of his room, and Ashton lets him. If he and Michael didn't have each other, Ashton's confident they'd have both died a hundred times over by now.

* * *

In the end, Ashton emails his professor asking if it's possible to submit a potential screenplay idea, subject to change if Ashton comes up with anything ( _literally anything_ ) better. His professor replies promptly, telling him it's fine as long as he's willing to work under a tighter schedule. So Ashton writes four hundred words of some bullshit story about four uni guys that discover hidden treasure on campus, and sends it off in time for class on Friday.

A paper cut forms on his index finger halfway through his Shakespeare Analysis class. Ashton watches the red line cut across his skin and inhales sharply at the sting, which fizzles out only moments later.

"Everything okay, Ashton?" his professor asks. Ashton blushes and tucks his hand into his lap.

"Fine," he says, embarrassed. "Hit my hand."

His professor nods and returns to the lesson, and Ashton rubs his thumb and index finger together over the line of the cut. It's funny, but he does feel a little connected to his soulmate like this. It reassures him to know that his soulmate is just a normal person like Ashton, someone who suffers from paper cuts same as anyone. 

Now if only Ashton could _find_ him.

He meets Alex for lunch again, and can't help his eyes roving around the dining hall for a clumsy blond guy. Alex picks up on Ashton's investigation.

"Dude, you're gonna go crazy like this," he says candidly, forking two potatoes into his mouth with one bite. "Stop it."

"I'm not," Ashton tries, but he doesn't have a claim to refute, nor a leg to stand on. "Can you blame me?" he says instead.

"I'm not blaming," Alex says. "I'm just saying you'll meet him when you meet him. What exactly is your plan? Spot a blond guy, chase him down, punch him in the face to see if it hurts you too?"

Ashton steals a potato off Alex's plate. "Why would I punch anyone else when you're right here?"

"Aww," Alex says, grinning. "Hate to disappoint, but I'm not your soulmate, babe."

"I'm wounded. I'll never love again." Ashton grabs for Alex's wrist. "Love me!"

"I love another," Alex laughs, back of his hand dramatically draped over his forehead. "We can never be together!"

"Ah, well," Ashton says, abruptly sobering. "Jack says you're shit in bed anyway."

Alex gasps. "Jack does _not_ say that!"

Ashton shrugs innocently and takes a bite of his pizza.

"I don't believe you," Alex says, jabbing a finger at Ashton. "Jack's not a good enough liar to pretend I'm not a monster in bed."

"Okay, I don’t want to know that."

"And besides, you'd fuck me even if I was bad. Your standards are impossibly low."

“My standards aren’t _low_ ,” Ashton says pragmatically. “Having standards implies that I’m looking to get laid.” Alex gives him a _well, aren't you?_ look. "Which I'm not. Sorry, Alex, I'm just not as constantly horny as you are."

"Wonder what that's like," Alex muses. "What do you even think about with all that free time?"

"Plotting your demise."

"Mm. Starting with Michael, though, right?"

"Obviously. Topple the king and the rest will fall after him."

"You think Michael's our king?"

"Well it's not you, and it's _definitely_ not Jack. And it can't be me, since it's my plot."

Alex nods thoughtfully. "Maybe you should write that as your screenplay," he suggests. "Your four guys in college idea, but one of them turns power-hungry and tries to socially decimate the other three."

"That movie already exists," Ashton says. "It's called _Mean Girls._ Maybe you've heard of it."

"Alright, fuck off," Alex gripes, as Ashton laughs at him. 

* * *

The screenwriting class is being split into groups.

Ashton doesn't hate group discussions in and of themselves. The English major in him loves to talk, and the philosophy minor only compounds that. But usually, being the most talkative in a group also means he's the _only_ speaker, and that gets awkward quickly. Ashton knows that on paper he's the most insufferable person on the planet. He just wishes it wouldn't be true in person.

The instructions are to discuss _The Godfather_ (" _which you should have watched this week on your own_ "), but Ashton's group is two quiet kids and one very contrary bloke Ashton genuinely has no interest in engaging. As soon as the guy starts in about "the portrayal of females," Ashton rolls his eyes and tunes out. He shuffles his papers together, mindlessly, until a stinging feeling — almost identical to the one from his first class — pierces the pad of his thumb.

Ashton pulls his hand off his papers and stares as a paper cut forms, this one slowly bleeding. Then he hears, from a group across the room, "Ow, _fuck!_ "

"Language," their professor says, but Ashton's not concerned with language. He whips his head up, trying to see across all the other groups. It could just be a coincidence — but for someone to be hurt at the same time as Ashton?

It could be a coincidence, sure. Or it could be fate.

Ashton stands, abandoning subtlety. All he can see of the group is the backs of their heads, except for the two girls who are facing him. He sucks on his thumb to stall the bleeding. There are three guys in that group, and of _course_ they're all fucking blond.

Ashton has half a mind to race over there and shake them individually until whoever had reacted fesses up, but the decision not to isn't made by him. 

"Oh, it looks like class is over," their professor says, sounding surprised. "Sorry to keep you, everyone. Have a great weekend. Read and watch _Silence of the Lambs_!"

 _No, no, no,_ Ashton thinks desperately. The clattering of students packing up fills the room, and Ashton tries to pull his shit together as quickly as he can, but he doesn't want to bleed all over his stuff, so he's operating with only one hand. By the time he glances back up, he's one of the last left to go. 

Fuck. _Fuck._ Ashton slumps over, palm flat on the desk and elbows locked, taking a second to compose himself.

"Ashton?" It's his professor. Ashton looks towards her and smiles half-heartedly. "Just checking you didn't pass out on me."

"I'm fine," Ashton tells her, which is largely untrue. "And I'm going to think of a better screenplay idea this weekend, I swear."

"You know, I didn't hate the one you turned in," his professor says kindly. "It might not be the newest idea out there, but there really are no new ideas. And I enjoy a good story about friendship and intrigue."

Ashton frowns. "I think it's uncreative," he says. "I'm better than that, I really am. I'm going to think of something better."

His professor shrugs. "Well, it's important to be happy with your work, I'll give you that."

Ashton sighs in relief. She gets it. "Yeah," he says. His phone starts buzzing. "Sorry," he says as he looks at the caller ID, "it's my housemate, I have to —"

"Go," his professor says. Ashton smiles gratefully. "See you on Monday. Have a good weekend."

"You too," Ashton says, and hefts his bag over his shoulder with one hand while he answers his phone with the other. "Mikey, hey."

"Come party with us!" Calum yells through the phone.

"You're partying right now? At—" Ashton checks his phone. "Four in the afternoon?"

"Fuck you, we might be," Michael protests. "But Cal's talking about the frat party tonight."

"No," Ashton says immediately. Ashton and frat parties do not mix.

"I knew you'd say that," Michael sighs. "It's not a normal frat, it's Calum's frat."

"Still no."

"Come on, Ash," Calum wheedles. Then, "Hey — fuck!" Over Michael whooping victoriously.

"What are you guys doing?" Ashton asks.

"Kicking Calum's ass in Fifa!"

"He scored _once_. He's losing —"

"Yeah, losing by _one less_ —"

"Ten to four!"

"So you're at home?" Ashton asks, because he doesn't think Calum owns Fifa. Fifa's probably half the reason Calum ever comes over. 

"Yeah, Calum's just gonna stay here tonight," Michael says. "Party's closer to our place than his dorm."

"Cool," Ashton says. "Well, I'll probably watch _Silence of the Lambs_ tonight. Have fun."

"Nope," Michael says. "You're coming to the party."

"I can't," Ashton argues. "You're already Calum's plus one."

"Mikey can be my mate's plus one," Calum says dismissively. "Ashton, don't be boring. Stop touching my controller, you cheater!"

"It's not cheating, it's _strategy_ ," Michael shoots back. "Hey! Fuck off!"

"Your soulmate might be there," Calum adds, over Michael's protests towards whatever Calum is doing to him. Ashton prefers not to know.

"If my soulmate is in my screenwriting class like I think he is, he's probably not the type to be in frat," Ashton says.

"What? Why do you think that?"

"Something in class today." Thinking of it makes Ashton's stomach pitch, hollow and longing. How he'd gotten _this_ close, and again completely dropped the ball. And Ashton can't even blame Alex this time. "Got a paper cut and someone else reacted. And before you ask, no, I didn't see who."

"Jesus, Ashton," Calum laughs. "Fate really doesn't want you to meet your soulmate."

“He’s joking,” Michael says, as if he knows this comment stings more than it should. Ashton bristles at how quickly Michael comes to his defense, even though Michael is, of course, right. Ashton feels sick at the notion that maybe the universe itself is bending over backwards to keep Ashton’s soulmate just out of reach. 

It’s no coincidence that Ashton’s getting closer to meeting his soulmate, but it’s also no coincidence that they haven’t met yet. And Ashton is tired of letting the universe decide for him.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll come.” He won’t find his soulmate by sitting in his room, sulking and working in vain to improve a tragic attempt at a screenplay. His soulmate isn’t between the pages of _Much Ado_. If Ashton really wants to meet his soulmate, he’s going to have to start putting the steps in.

* * *

Ashton doesn't drink at the party. He doesn't drink that much to begin with. He's hoping that a clear mind will somehow lead him closer to his soulmate.

It's silly and stupid to try and give chase. Logically, Ashton knows that there's almost no way to determine if his soulmate is here or not. And if it's meant to be, it will be. Ashton has always held a lot of stock in fate, but now he's getting impatient. It's not fair that Michael and Calum have each other, that Jack and Alex have each other, and that Ashton is still alone. It feels like a cruel prank.

Despite Michael’s insistence that this party “isn’t like a normal party” because it’s hosted by Calum’s fraternity, the party is still very much traditionally party-like. Ashton, Michael, Calum, and one of Calum’s mates (Louis?) are greeted by the pounding rhythm of the bass through the floor and walls. It’s already too loud here. Ashton had paid the requisite five bucks to enter, and now he’s regretting it. He lets Michael drag him along to the table where all the alcohol is, and waits as Michael cracks a beer and pours it into a red solo cup.

“Nope,” he says when Michael offers it. Michael rolls his eyes.

“You’re such a buzzkill,” he says. 

“Thanks.”

“Gimme one,” Calum says, reaching greedily for Michael’s cup. Michael passes it along with a small smile and moves to pour himself another. Ashton scans the room; Calum’s mate has already disappeared, and Calum is being pulled aside now by some other bloke standing around. Ashton suddenly, brutally hopes that Michael won’t just abandon him. He never knows what to do with himself at parties, doesn’t fit well in the drunk-stoned-and-horny atmosphere of all the ones he’s attended so far, and if he stands around, people are going to _know_ he doesn’t belong and they’ll all judge him for coming and being as much of a buzzkill as Michael says he is.

“Bro,” Michael says, swallowing down his drink. He puts a bracing hand against Ashton’s shoulder where it curves into his neck. “Stop thinking, Jesus. This is why we drink.”

“You dragged me here,” Ashton reminds him.

“So you could _let loose_ and _relax_ , not stand there stiff as a board!”

“Shouldn’t have brought me, then.”

“I’m not going to babysit you,” Michael tells him. “You’re a grown-ass man.” Which is a little bit overkill; Ashton’s only twenty-one. “If you hate it so much you can go home. I just thought it’d be good for you to get out. Reboot your brain.”

Ashton knows it’s all about the thought, with Michael, and it’s really his own fault for agreeing to come. He sighs. “Go with Calum,” he says. “I’ll handle myself.” 

“Good man,” Michael says. He presses a kiss to Ashton’s cheek, breath smelling already of beer, and then flounces away to permanently affix himself to Calum’s side and/or face. Ashton stands around until he realizes that taking up real estate near the drinks table when he isn’t even drinking is, like, a capital offense, and he moves away.

The music sucks. It’s not so crowded that Ashton can’t breathe, but the night is young, so it probably will be soon. Also, the living room smells distinctly of weed, and Ashton can see the haze from whoever had been smoking it on site. Personally, Ashton finds it irresponsible and inconsiderate to smoke indoors, but it’s not his house, not his frat or his party. Without all the party paraphernalia, Ashton muses, it’s probably a nice place.

He wanders for a little bit, trying his best to avoid brushing against anyone, and tucks himself away into a corner of a hallway. The hallway is unlit, which probably means nobody's supposed to be down here, but it's the quietest place Ashton can find, If someone tells him to move, he will. In the meantime, though, he's hoping to just take a breather.

For maybe twenty minutes he leans against the wall, eyes closed, breathing in and out for something steady to focus on and attempting in vain to come up with a better idea for a screenplay. It's nearly impossible to think over the boom of the bass, but he gives it the old college try.

He's close to being close to coming up with something when a weird feeling creeps over his neck out of the blue, distracting him. Ashton's eyes fly open and his hand moves to cover his neck, glancing around to see if anyone has just walked past and maybe nudged him. But the hallway is still as barren as ever, and when Ashton drops his hand, the feeling on his neck has faded. It had been more of a... tingling than anything, but it had definitely been there, and now it isn't.

 _Weird_ , Ashton thinks, and tips his head back against the wall again to return to his brainstorming when he feels it again, lower but undeniably the same sensation.

Baffled, Ashton locates a bathroom and nudges the door shut. He flicks the light on, blinking a few times in his reflection to adjust. When the white fades from his vision, he stares at himself in the mirror, face growing redder as he watches what is unmistakably a hickey blossom on his own neck.

There's no way. There's no fucking way Ashton's soulmate is getting hickeys right now, and if he is, there is _no way_ they're showing up on Ashton too. That's a level of sick joke that Ashton refuses to fathom. He's dreaming; he has to be. But the closer he looks at his panicked reflection, the more it sinks in.

His fucking soulmate is hooking up with someone, and Ashton is left with the evidence.

Instantly, the ground crumbles at Ashton's feet. He slumps heavily onto the toilet seat, elbows braced against his knees. This has never happened before. He didn't think this was the kind of thing that _did_ happen. He supposes he'd never thought to ask any of his friends, but he figured since love bites weren't, strictly speaking, a form of injury, surely they couldn't transfer the same as, say, a bruised wrist. 

But maybe Ashton's soulmate has just never been particularly adventurous.

Not before tonight, anyway. And that's like an extra fuck-you from the universe. Finally, _finally_ , Ashton decides to make an active effort to locate his soulmate, and this is what he gets for his troubles? To be a blank canvas for someone else's hookup? To be imprinted with the proof that his own fucking soulmate wasn't keen enough on finding him to wait before jumping someone else's bones? 

Ashton's head is spinning. It's cruel. It's fucking cruel, is what it is. Ashton's not sure if he's pissed off at the universe or his soulmate, but there's a swell of frustration and anger in his chest and he has no one to take it out on. 

Fuck this. Ashton's going home. Even as he stands to leave the bathroom he feels another bruising mark bloom against his own neck, and the resentment returns in full force. He can either stay at a horrible party while his soulmate is out there, getting laid or something, or he can go to sleep.

He texts Michael _going home_ to forestall a barrage of concerned messages, and then puts away his phone and shoves through to the exit. One of the frat kids — probably a freshman — waves him a cheery, tipsy farewell, and Ashton just barely resists the urge to give him the finger. 

He spends the eight-minute walk home stewing in his own frustration. When he throws open the front door, there's a movie on the TV, and Jack jerks his head off Alex's shoulder, dazedly swiveling his head towards Ashton.

"Oh, hey," Alex says. "Figured you guys wouldn't be home 'til later. Wait, where are Calum and Michael?"

"Are those hickeys?" Jack asks gleefully.

Ashton glares at him. "I'm going to bed," he tells them, and stalks up the stairs to his room. Maybe he's childish, but at least he's not hooking up with someone random.

Ashton's mum always told him never to go to sleep angry, but Ashton thinks his mum will just have to forgive him, one fucking time.

* * *

* * *

Most of the weekend Ashton reprises his role of sitting at his desk and staring blankly at his screen, praying that a better idea for a screenplay will just sprout, fully-formed, and then turn itself into words that Ashton can write down and submit for assessment from his professor. Unfortunately, staring at the screen for so long ends up being a fruitless effort, but it does result in Ashton feeling vaguely ill, which leads to him throwing up in the toilet. Michael gives him this concerned look when he materializes in the bathroom doorway, but as soon as Ashton’s done vomiting he feels better, which is fucking weird.

“You good there?” Michael asks, face all screwed up.

“Fine,” Ashton says, spitting once into the toilet bowl before standing up. “Honestly — I feel fine. Must have eaten something weird.”

“Jack probably poisoned you,” Michael says. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I promise I’m fine,” Ashton says, and he is.

The weekend is also spent (or wasted) staring into the mirror of the bathroom, trying to figure out if it’s worth it to cover the hickeys with makeup or if they’ll fade by Monday.

They don’t fade, but Ashton’s terrible with makeup and nobody in the house has his exact color anyway, so he wears a shirt buttoned to his neck and just hopes no one notices, or cares. This is university. Hickeys are the tamest thing he could have, right? Right.

It’s easy to feel angry at his soulmate, but Ashton’s working really hard against that instinct. After all, it’s not either of their faults that they haven’t met, and his soulmate is probably feeling as lonely as Ashton. Plus he doesn’t have the reassurance Ashton has, that they’re at least at the same school, and possibly the same screenwriting class. It’s only natural to seek out some kind of physical comfort, and anyway, this is the first time Ashton’s gotten these kinds of marks, meaning that whatever it had been had been a one-time-only situation. Those don’t typically come with feelings.

There’s just no way Ashton will allow himself the thought that his soulmate might not like him. If that ends up being true, Ashton’s not sure how he’ll manage.

Sunday and Monday both come with weird flashes of dizziness, almost like Ashton’s body is teetering on the edge of being sick but keeps being pulled back into health. It’s annoying, and keeps taking him by surprise; he nearly falls over from a sudden wave of exhaustion on his way to his Shakespeare Analysis class on Monday, but as soon as he sits down on a nearby bench he feels right as rain. 

He meets Alex for lunch, and this time he _knows_ he’s being stupidly obvious about his soulmate search, but he can’t help it. The last time he’d been this close had been last Monday, in the dining hall. For most of their lunch date, Ashton’s eyes stay fixed on the coffee station. Alex is good-natured about it, which Ashton appreciates, because he knows he’s being annoying and a shitty friend. He just can’t really find it in himself to care, and he thinks Alex knows that, because Alex has always understood him a little better than most people. (Other than Michael, but his relationship with Michael is a different ballpark anyway.)

“Ashton,” Alex says, before they part ways. “Eyes on me, man. Hello.” Ashton tears his gaze from the coffee station and meets Alex’s. “I want you to meet your soulmate too,” Alex tells him. “And not just because you spent all of lunch looking for him and ignoring me, although that’s part of it.”

“Sorry,” Ashton says, but Alex waves him off.

“Please, I don’t care. I get it, I was there. I just know how you are like this. You know he’ll love you, right?” Ashton blinks. The words don’t really register, and it must show on his face. “Ash. He’ll love you. You’re fucking soulmates. You’re built to love each other. And just because he went and hooked up with someone else doesn’t mean he won’t like you when he meets you. Like, sex is just sex.”

“Not always.”

“Just trust me,” Alex says. “Do you know how many times I had to cover up the hickeys Jack would get that would appear on me before we met? Jack slept around like nobody’s business. People just assumed I was a huge slut.” Ashton had kind of known that, but it had never occurred to him, about the bruises. “All I’m saying is…I don’t know. Chill out, I guess.”

“Oh, thank God,” Ashton says dryly. “I thought you were going to give me a genuine life lesson.”

“Fuck you, see if I ever offer you words of wisdom again.”

Ashton gives him a cheeky grin and saunters away towards his screenwriting class. He’s there a couple minutes early, so he puts all of his stuff down before glancing around the room. Does a quick scan. Only about a third of the class is here, but Ashton recognizes at least two of the blond guys from the group from before. Well. May as well narrow down his options. It’s either someone in here, or it’s no one in here.

Resolute, Ashton slides into his seat and then pinches his arm, hard enough that his nails dig into his skin. He waits, eyes screwed shut like that’ll make the brief ache less sharp, but nobody reacts. The classroom is as silent as ever. Ashton releases his arm and opens his eyes, feeling slightly crestfallen.

Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe it had been a coincidence, with that group. Maybe Ashton should start believing less in fate and more in coincidence. He rubs at his neck, self-conscious about the marks.

“Hi,” the professor says, entering at that moment with a couple students just behind. “Hello, everyone, so glad to see you all here. I hope your weekends were relaxing, I hope you all enjoyed _Silence of the Lambs._ ” Ashton hadn’t — he’s not a horror guy — but he doesn’t say. “I just want to say, before we really get started here, that one of your classmates has come down with a fever, so if someone would be willing to take notes for him, and maybe bring him some of the work, I can give you extra credit for that.”

Ashton’s hand is in the air before he can really stop it. “Sorry, who’s ill?”

“Oh, of course,” the professor says, shaking her head slightly. “Luke, Luke Hemmings? Blond one? I’m not sure if you —”

“I can do it,” Ashton says, short of breath. _Don’t get your hopes up, don’t get your hopes up, don’t get your fucking hopes up_ , he tries to think, tries to think it even in Michael’s voice or Alex’s voice, someone whose input he trusts, but it’s too fucking late. Luke is the blond kid who’s missing today. Luke is his last shot. Luke is ill, and since Saturday Ashton keeps feeling halfway there — almost like he’s getting the echoes of someone else’s sickness. His _soulmate’s._ Maybe. If it’s not Luke, Ashton is right back where he started, but if it is… “You can let him know I’ll get the notes to him. I just need his dorm.”

Ashton’s professor beams at him. “I’ll email it to you, and I’ll email Luke,” she says. “Great! Thank you so much, Ashton. I’m glad that’s settled. Let’s get started, then, shall we? _Silence of the Lambs!_ What did we think?”

* * *

It's ridiculous to be nervous, but Ashton is nervous anyway. 

This is the moment of truth, as far as he's concerned. He's been standing outside this dorm room for what’s bordering on a creepy amount of time, and he's tempted to just turn tail and run. A big part of him doesn't want to know. An equal part of him thinks he's being fucking stupid, and the odds of this Luke being his soulmate are so slim they may as well be none. And a third part is concerned that someone will call security on him if he doesn't knock soon. 

He knocks.

Nothing happens. For a minute that lasts an eternity. Then, just as Ashton lifts his hand to knock again, the doorknob turns. Ashton's heart is going to beat right out of his chest.

A blond head appears in the doorway. "Luke?" Ashton tries.

The blond guy smiles. "Not quite," he says. "Niall. Luke's roommate. You are…?"

"Ashton — _fuck_ ," Ashton says, wincing as a current of pain through his head momentarily cripples him, and he flinches violently. Niall looks amused, and he turns his head to look inward at something, or possibly someone, in the room. "Um, not — I’m Ashton, I mean. Sorry, I, uh."

"No worries," Niall says, "but you came at a pretty bad time if you’re looking for Luke. He’s pretty poorly. Are you a friend?"

"Whosit?" Ashton hears from inside the room.

"You've got a visitor, mate," Niall says to the mystery voice — Luke, Ashton presumes.

"I don't want a visitor," Luke moans. "I want a fucking paracetamol. My head is killing me. Please tell them to return at a later date."

Ashton presses his palm to his forehead, panicky all of a sudden. "No, I — I just have notes from, um, we're in the same screenwriting class. But I think —" _I think we're soulmates_ doesn't sound any good, but Ashton does, fiercely. He digs his fingernails into his palm, carving crescent moons into his own skin with the ferocity of his grip. Niall watches him do it, and tilts his head.

"Ow, what the fuck," comes the cry from within, and Niall is looking back and forth between Luke and Ashton as his smile grows.

"Oh," he says. "Brilliant. Luke, I'm gonna go grab you some soup and a cuppa, yeah? And I'm letting Ashton in."

"Who's Ashton," Luke's voice says wearily. "I don't even know anyone called Ashton."

Niall beams at him as he steps past, holding the door to admit Ashton into the room. "Finally," he says in a low voice as they pass each other. "I'm bloody thrilled to meet you, mate. Luke will be too, he's just in a shit mood from being ill all weekend. Good luck." Louder: "Love you, Luke."

"Fuck you," Luke grumbles. The door closes. Ashton hugs his folder of notes to his chest and turns, scanning the room slowly until his eyes land on the bed on the far end, where Luke has clearly been nesting for a couple days, blanket tucked up around his shoulders.

"Hi," Ashton says nervously. "I'm from your class."

"Oh, yeah, the professor said you'd be by," Luke remembers, and grimaces. "Well, I don't want to get you sick."

"You have already," Ashton says, palms sweating. "Um, the whole weekend. Does your hand still hurt?"

"What?" Luke says suspiciously, and then, "No, it was just for a — wait, how did you…"

Ashton holds up his palm, crescent moon marks on full display, and says, "I think you're my soulmate."

Luke's eyes widen. Then he blinks. And then he coughs, violently. Ashton waits for a tickle in his throat, or anything, but nothing comes. His face breaks into a smile.

"Oh, fuck," Luke says. "God, this sucks. This is the first time we meet and I'm sick as a fucking dog. Ashton. You're Ashton. Fuck. I fucking swear I’m happy to meet you. I wish I hadn't been ill."

"You," Ashton says, "are the clumsiest person I have ever known."

Luke makes an offended noise. "What? I'm at my weakest and you're mocking me? I don't even know your last name!"

"Irwin," Ashton says. “Do you know how many people have been worried about me from all the bruise marks I kept getting from you?”

“Stop making fun of me —” Luke cuts himself off with a groan. “Christ, my head feels terrible. I’m well and truly humiliated. Fuck. Were you really sick because of me?”

“I threw up on Saturday for no reason,” Ashton tells him. He smiles a little bit, all of a sudden a little shy, a little breathless. “Sorry, I’m not trying to make you all self-conscious, I’m just…really fucking happy to finally meet you.”

“If I weren’t so fucking disgusting I’d be happy too,” Luke says sincerely. He blinks at Ashton, or more specifically at his neck, and Ashton touches one of the fading hickeys nervously. “Oh, fuck. I didn’t realize you’d —”

“It’s fine,” Ashton says hurriedly.

“I’m still —”

“Luke, it’s okay,” Ashton repeats. Weirdly enough, it is. Somehow Alex’s words, flippant though they were, have settled comfortably under Ashton’s skin, and he finds himself echoing them. “Honestly. Don’t be sorry. It’s just sex.”

“It wasn’t even,” Luke says quickly. “I don’t do that.” He laughs to himself, mirthlessly. “This kinda feels like karma, anyway.”

“Well, think about it like this. If you hadn’t gotten sick you’d have never met me.”

“We’d have met. We’re in the same screenwriting class.”

“I think fate has a specific grievance against me,” Ashton says gravely, and Luke laughs, musical and bright despite the rasp from his sore throat. 

“Well, how about you give me your number, and maybe when I’m not on death’s door we can, I dunno, get coffee. Do you, like, drink coffee?”

Ashton nods, and when Luke gives him the go-ahead he rattles off his phone number. 

“You can talk me through these notes,” Luke adds, which reminds Ashton of the reason for his visit, and he fumbles with the folder in his hands. 

“Right! Uh, the notes. I can — I can leave them, if you want?”

“Put them on Niall’s desk,” Luke says, pointing. Ashton does. “Sorry, honestly, I just don’t think you should come any nearer in case I get you sick. Niall’s probably caught it already or something. He hasn’t been ill the whole time I’ve known him, actually, so maybe he’s got, like, an immune system of steel, but — yeah.”

Luke’s rambling, and Ashton is endeared. “That’s okay,” he says, like a broken record. “I’ll just admire you from a distance.”

“Not as much as I’m admiring you,” Luke says, which sounds vaguely, bizarrely, like a threat. “The only person I’ve seen the last two days is Niall. Even if you _weren’t_ , like, fucking gorgeous I’d be staring.” Ashton blushes.

“Charming,” he says, and Luke grins, a bit cheeky.

“Well, I’m charming.”

“Yeah, your dry cough is real charming.”

“Hey!”

“Text me,” Ashton says cheerily, backing towards the door. “Or call. Whatever. Either way.”

“Thanks for the notes,” Luke says after him. “And for being my soulmate, I guess.”

“You are _not_ welcome. I’ve suffered greatly from being your soulmate.”

“Hey, fuck off!”

Ashton gives a little wave and pulls the door closed behind him. The moment it shuts he slumps against it, blinking against the yellow light of the residence hall. Somehow he’s kept his wits about him until exactly right now. His hands are shaking, which is weird because it’s already _happened_ , this is it — he’s met his soulmate.

Holy _shit._

Scrambling for his phone, he calls Michael. It rings about seven times, and then Michael’s voice comes slightly breathless through the other end. “You better have a really fucking phenomenal reason to be calling.”

Ashton winces. Right — there’s a reason he doesn’t ring Michael anymore. “I do?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I met my soulmate.”

There’s a pause, some shuffling, and then Calum: “ _You met your soulmate?_ ”

Ashton grins. “I’m thinking of replacing Michael with you for the position of best friend,” he tells Calum. Over Michael’s _hey, fuck you!_ , he adds, “And yeah, I met him. His name’s Luke.”

“Amazing,” Michael says curtly into the phone. “That’s great news. I’m so happy for you, Ashton. Was that all?”

“No, I want to hear about him!” Calum insists, but Ashton knows he’s just being coy.

“I’ll tell you about him later, there’s not much to know. You guys can get back to, like, fucking or whatever.”

“Fucking thank you,” Michael grumbles. “Love you, Ash. You know I’m not hanging up on you because I don’t love you.”

“I do,” Ashton confirms. “Love you too.”

The line cuts out before he’s even gotten the last word out. 

Ashton smiles to himself. He doesn’t even care. Michael and Calum can do whatever they want. Ashton has a soulmate. Ashton has a soulmate who is in the room he’s standing in front of.

Huh. Maybe he should leave before someone really does call security.

The whole way home he can’t stop smiling, and before he’s even gotten there his phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, declaring itself as Luke. He saves the number and replies, _hi :)_ , and Luke responds immediately.

 **luke:** hi :) heard you were talking shit

 **ashton:** talking shit?????

 **luke:** i mean to your friend on the phone

 **luke:** you were just outside my room did you think i wasnt gonna hear you talking about me

 **ashton:**...yes?

 **luke:** youll never know what im saying about you to niall

 **ashton:** you'll never know what niall said to me about you then

 **luke:** he’ll tell me

 **luke:** or i’ll cough on his laptop

 **ashton:** what the fuck are you sick with i feel like you’ve got like nine different illnesses going on

 **luke:** like i fucking know mate

 **luke:** i’m sick with sickness

 **ashton:** wow are you a nursing major

Luke sends the middle finger emoji, but all Ashton feels is warmth in his gut, and he wonders if this is what people mean, when they talk about the feeling of a soulmate, the sense of _rightness_ that pervades their interaction — it felt so easy in Luke’s room, and it feels easy now. Luke feels right.

It’s that, more than even the sympathy illness he’d experienced, that convinces Ashton beyond a shadow of a doubt. Luke’s his soulmate. Of course he is.

* * *

“So is he a freshman?” is Jack’s first question, once Ashton’s finished relaying the story.

“I don’t know,” Ashton realizes. “I forgot to ask. Probably not, though, right? Like, a freshman wouldn’t be in my screenwriting class.”

“It is an intro class,” Alex points out.

“Okay, well, whatever. Either he is or he isn’t, it doesn’t matter, he’s my soulmate which means he’s perfect and I don’t care.”

“Ah, true love,” Michael says, in a fake-dreamy voice. Then he sobers up. “I mean, jokes aside, Ash, this is amazing. Like, really.” Ashton smiles at him across the dining room table. “Maybe now you can stop fucking sulking about it.”

“And write your screenplay,” Alex adds.

Oh, the fucking screenplay. But on the other hand, Luke has to do a screenplay too, doesn’t he? Ashton hadn’t had anyone in the class to bounce ideas off of before, but now he has a soulmate. If not — well — friends is a good starting point, anyway, and hopefully Luke will be willing to help Ashton brainstorm. Otherwise Ashton’s screwed, because he’s really got no clue what to submit, and the deadline’s getting tighter every day.

They finish dinner, and Ashton excuses himself to call Luke.

“Hey, Ashton!” 

“You sound better,” Ashton observes.

“I am,” Luke says. “Much. It’s like your visit was magic. Healed me right up.”

Ashton laughs. “Possibly fate feeling guilty for fucking me over.”

“Fucking _you_ over? I’m the one who got the plague, basically.”

“Well,” Ashton says, but that’s a pretty decent point. “Okay, well, true. Look, I wanted to ask you, have you, like, started your screenplay yet?”

“Depends what you mean by started.”

“Um…do you have an idea yet?”

There’s a brief pause. “Do you not?”

“I…do not.” Ashton frowns; he sounds irresponsible now, like some kind of apathetic asshole who’s just taking the class to get a credit. “Not for lack of trying, though.”

“It’s fine, I get it,” Luke says. “I took my writing comp requirement last year and had a similar problem, and that was just for a short story.”

“Oh,” Ashton says, feeling strangely relieved. “You were here last year?”

“Yeah, I’m a sophomore,” Luke says. “You?”

“Junior,” Ashton says, and then, “English major. Um, philosophy minor. Sorry if that makes you hate me.”

“Can’t be worse than film major, which is what I am,” Luke says. That’s true. Alex and Jack are going to absolutely annihilate Luke about that, if they ever meet. Which Ashton is starting to think they shouldn’t. At least he’s not a freshman.

“That’s embarrassing,” Ashton informs him. “I’m embarrassed to have you as my soulmate.”

“You’re a _philosophy minor_.”

“You’re a _film major._ ”

“Okay, we’re establishing facts about each other. We’re excellent at icebreakers. Look at us go.”

Ashton laughs aloud. “I was going to ask — would you want to, like, I don’t know. Help me with this screenplay idea? Only if you want, obviously. Like, I know you —”

“I’d love to,” Luke interrupts. “Anyway, I’m excited to meet you when I’m not, like, about to die.”

“Same,” Ashton says, and bites back a silly, stupid grin.

* * *

“Hey,” Luke says, and Ashton looks up from his phone to see Luke standing over him, Starbucks drink in hand.

“Hey,” Ashton says, trying to stare without obviously staring as Luke takes the seat across from him. Even in sickness Luke had been, well, pretty, but now he’s healthy and Ashton finally sees what he looks like from head to toe, and yeah, Luke is still pretty, these piercing blue eyes that practically glow from under a scruffy blond quiff, and a lip ring that he must have taken out when he’d been sick but now Ashton can’t stop looking at. He’s hot, in a word. Ashton’s soulmate is hot.

“Nice to formally meet you when I’m not burning up,” Luke says easily. 

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “Glad you’re feeling better, also.”

“I’m pretty sure it was soulmate magic.” Luke takes a long sip of his drink. “So, screenplay?”

“I don’t even want to tell you my other ideas,” Ashton says, and then takes a drink from his coffee. “What’s yours about?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Oh, that’s just an open invitation to laugh,” Ashton says, leaning his elbows onto the table and grinning. Luke blushes. “Joking. I won’t. Maybe.”

“You will,” Luke sighs. “It’s fine. I’m not, like — I don’t want to write movies, you know? I just have to take this class for my major. I don’t think the professor likes me a lot.”

“Stop stalling.”

“It’s a movie about a penguin who’s a superhero,” Luke says with a straight face. Ashton snorts.

“Okay,” he says. “I feel better now.”

“I know it’s childish.”

“No, it’s fine!” Ashton says, and he smiles. “Seriously, that’s great. Like, fuck it. You don’t have to write the next, uh, what’s the name of that movie everyone loves? _Citizen Kane_.”

“You forgot the name of _Citizen Kane_?” Luke repeats, eyes wide and judgmental.

“I don’t watch a lot of movies,” Ashton says defensively.

“Wait, have — have you _seen_ _Citizen Kane_?”

“I — look, are you helping me with —”

“You _haven’t_?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be one of those film majors who’s like _oh my god, you haven’t seen every single popular movie on the planet?_ I like to read in my free time.”

“Okay, okay,” Luke says, holding up his hands in an _I-surrender_ motion. “Sorry. You’re right. But, like. Really?”

“Oh, my God,” Ashton says, rolling his eyes. “We can watch it together if it’s that important to you.”

“It is,” Luke says. “You’ve just committed to that. You can’t back out now.”

Ashton shakes his head, smiling. “It’s a date.” And that gets Luke all pink-cheeked again, which gives Ashton an opening to add, “For the moment, though, I really do need help coming up with a screenplay. I had this idea of, like, four uni kids who find hidden treasure on campus, but that sucked, and I need something better. Like, something good.”

“And naturally you think that I, author of the first penguin superhero film script, will be able to help.” Luke nods intelligently. “Smart.”

Ashton wrinkles his nose at Luke, and Luke sticks his tongue out. “Okay, seriously,” Ashton says. He takes another drink. “What’s something that would make a good film?”

“Don’t try and think of an idea for a good film,” Luke tells him. Ashton frowns. “I mean, your idea of a good film isn’t going to be the same as mine, or as our professor’s. You can’t just write a _good_ movie, you have to think of an idea that you can write well, otherwise no matter how good the idea is, the execution will be bad.”

Ashton blinks. “That’s actually smart.”

“I’m fucking smart,” Luke says petulantly.

“Of course,” Ashton says, smirking. “Sorry, Mr. Penguin Superhero.”

Luke makes a face at him. “Smart enough not to put effort into courses I’m not really going to need.”

Ashton concedes this point; Luke is, actually, smart. “Okay,” he says. “Well, what’s something I can write well?”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this,” Luke says dryly, “but only you know the answer to that.” Ashton gives him a Look. “I don’t really know you, Ash. What are things you like? What are you good at?”

Ashton wracks his brain. “I like to read,” he says. “And write, and talk about the universe and our place in it. Um, I play the drums? And I like to cook, and I’m good at all of those things.”

Luke clears his throat. “You play the drums, really?”

“Yeah, sometimes. We don’t have a drum kit at our house so it’s really just whenever I get the chance anymore.”

“That’s awesome,” Luke says fervently. “Explains the, like, biceps.”

Ashton laughs, and he’s sure he’s blushing. “Well.” Luke just waits. “Well _anyway_. That’s what I like to do. Is there a movie in there somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Luke says. “Of course there is. There are probably fifty movies in there. Just pick one.”

Ashton drums his fingers on the tabletop and takes a thoughtful drink from his cup. Maybe there’s something. Maybe there’s potential in writing what he knows. What does he know?

“What about, like…” He purses his lips, and Luke folds his arms on the table, listening patiently. “A band. A band of uni students. I was in a band when I was a lot younger. And I always kind of wanted to be.”

“That’s good,” Luke says encouragingly. “Who’s in the band?”

“Uh, me?” Ashton reddens — that’s a stupid idea, surely — but Luke just nods like it makes sense.

“Obviously. Who else?”

Ashton bites his lip. “Well, probably some women, right? I can’t just not include women. I guess — two girls, two boys?”

“I’d watch this movie,” Luke says, and even if he’s just saying it to be supportive, Ashton feels better. Also, he doesn’t think Luke is just saying it to be supportive. 

“Okay, so there are two guys and two girls in the band, and for the whole movie you think they’re going to pair off as a guy and a girl each, and the movie builds on those relationships, but then it ends with the two guys pairing off and the two girls pairing off.”

“And what’s the conflict?”

“Um, I guess the success of the band? But I don’t want the conflict to be within the band,” Ashton decides. “There are enough movies about poor communication. These bandmates are going to be best friends. They resolve their issues maturely.”

“Ashton,” Luke says earnestly, “this is awesome.”

Ashton preens a little bit. “Still have to write it and turn it in, though.”

“Yeah, but that’s the easy part. You have an idea. You care about it. It’s going to be amazing even if the professor thinks it sucks, because you like it,” Luke says, with a sincere smile, and Ashton has a compelling urge to reach across the table and grab his hand just to see how it would feel.

But then Luke moves to drink from his cup and the moment disappears.

“Michael will probably laugh,” Ashton says instead. “He’s wanted to be in a band for ages.”

“Michael?”

“My housemate,” Ashton says. “Slash best friend.”

“Does he play anything?” Luke asks. 

“Yeah, guitar, and he’s really good, but we kind of tried to do the band thing and it didn’t really work with just two people, so it fell through.”

“Huh,” Luke says. “Well, maybe the other guy in your band can be Michael.”

“I just said it didn’t work.”

“In the _film_ , Ashton.”

“Oh.” Ashton grins. “Right.”

Luke grins back, and then suggests that they go for a walk because it’s a little too noisy in the dining hall. So they do, walking towards Luke’s residence hall even though it’s in the opposite direction of Ashton’s house. They veer away from the topic of the screenplay and Ashton asks about Luke instead. Luke wants to direct movies, hence the film major, but he’s not sure he has the confidence for it; he has two older brothers but he’s the first of his family to leave Australia for uni; he also plays a little bit of guitar, but mostly just blink-182 covers.

“Good taste,” Ashton says approvingly. “I love blink-182.”

“Thank fucking God,” Luke says. “If you didn’t I think I’d have to soulmate-break up with you.”

“Is that even possible? Like, can you?”

“I’d find a way,” Luke says ominously, and Ashton laughs as they pull to a stop in front of Luke’s res hall.

“This is where I leave you?” Ashton says, like it’s a question when it’s not, and Luke shuffles his feet.

“Oh, um, I wanted to tell you,” Luke says hesitantly. “About the, like.” He reaches for his neck and Ashton unconsciously reaches for his own. The hickeys, right. They’ve faded by now off Ashton, although they’re still faint on Luke. “It wasn’t — I don’t do — like.”

Ashton waits patiently, but Luke has stalled and is just looking at the ground. “Whatever it is, it’s fine,” Ashton says, in what he hopes is a reassuring voice.

“I don’t do sex,” Luke mumbles. “Like, I’m — I’m not — I won’t. Sorry if that’s not what you were hoping for.”

“Good,” Ashton says, and Luke looks up at him, so bewildered that Ashton has to smile. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“We — what?”

“I’m the same,” Ashton says, and if he isn’t, he’s close enough that it doesn’t matter. “It’s fine, Luke. Whatever you want.”

“Oh.” Luke stares at Ashton like he can’t quite believe it. “Really.”

“Really.”

“Okay. Cool. That’s great. That’s — that went much better than I anticipated, honestly.”

“Good,” Ashton says again. He’s waiting for Luke to stop staring, but Luke doesn’t, so Ashton says, “Anything else?”

Luke says, “Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Ashton says, and barely finishes saying it before Luke leans forward and catches his lips on Ashton’s, sweet and warm. 

Ashton’s heard all these stories about first kisses between soulmates; he knows that it was all fire and passion with Alex and Jack, and Michael has described his first kiss with Calum as something akin to a million explosions at once, but this, with Luke, doesn’t feel like anything big or dramatic. Like every other moment with Luke, this feels easy, the simplest thing in the world to do. It feels like puzzle pieces shifting into place, cheesy though that sounds; like walking into a cool room on a hot day, like the obvious choice. Ashton sighs happily as they break apart, molten gold pooling on the left side of his chest. 

“That was nice,” Luke says softly.

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “We’ll have to do it again sometime. But I should probably get home or Alex won’t make dinner for me.”

“Your housemates sound delightful,” Luke says.

“They are,” Ashton agrees, even though Luke’s being sarcastic. “See you, uh…”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Ashton confirms. “Can’t wait.”

“Good luck writing the screenplay,” Luke says, a broad smile across his face as Ashton starts to back away. 

Ashton gives him a thumbs up, and finally turns and walks back towards his house. He’s smiling like an idiot, the metallic tang of Luke’s lip ring still buzzing under his tongue, and he feels warm despite the breeze the whole way home.

**Author's Note:**

> ive never seen citizen kane but it's always ranked like #1 best movie of all time idk  
> anyway you can come say hey or tell me what you thought on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) thank you for reading this sorry about the general vibe


End file.
